


His Own Pair of Scissors

by jaimeykay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-24
Updated: 2012-07-24
Packaged: 2017-11-10 14:47:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/467488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaimeykay/pseuds/jaimeykay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean gets a brand new family. Well. Sort of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Own Pair of Scissors

“You sleep too much.”

Dean grunts and pushes the finger that’s currently poking his face out of the way. “Go ‘way, Sam.”

“Nope!” Sam practically sings, straddling his legs. A very non-Sam like behavior, to say the least, and that brings Dean awake. 

“The hell?”

When Dean looks up, he sees Sam’s eyes flash black. “Dad’s gonna punish you for sleeping so late. He didn’t work so long on your biological clock for you to mess it up now.”

Dean scrambles away, reaching instinctively under his pillow. His fingers clench around nothing. “The fuck are you?”

“Because if he has to reprogram you, he’s going to test me, and I really hated that,” Sam continues, rubbing his chest. “To make sure we’re calibrated and all that. So get up, you sack of shit.”

“Who are you?” Dean repeats. He looks around to see that he’s in a bedroom. A nice one, too, at first glance. Blue walls, nice furniture, and what looks like a walk-in closet. Upon deeper inspection, though, there’s a ceiling fan made of sinew and dressers of mahogany, with knobs that look like knuckles. He squints: the hands on the clock are finger bones. “And where are we?”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Do we really have to go through this again? It’s offensive every time, you know. We’re almost _friends_ , Dean.” He grins broadly. “But it’s okay, we’re family now. You’re my brother.”

“Sam?”

Sam narrows his eyes and his light demeanor vanishes, leaving only a betrayed expression. “No.” He scrunches his nose, revealing the top row of teeth. “Meg.”

_”It’s red, Dean. Red red red. Our favorite. You can taste it, I bet. Let me see those teeth.”_

“Well,” Meg sighs. “You sure do know how to make a girl feel good, don’t you Dean?”

“Is he complaining again?”

Dean jumps. Dad’s leaning against the wall, his arms crossed. He frowns. “It’s late, Dean-o. You should have been up by now.”

Dad’s face looks stern but there’s a twinkle in his eye, a smirk to his lips. He looks exactly as Dean remembers: confident, head held high, eyes piercing. “Lazy bones.”

Dean hisses and tries to jump out of bed—for what, he has no idea, perhaps to tear that clock off the wall and wield the clock hands as a knife—but before he can move an inch he’s slammed flat on his back.

“Uh uh,” Dad says, waggling a finger at him. “Can’t have that.”

Dean tries to twist his neck so he can get a good look at his father, but the only view he’s got is the ceiling. There’s an outline of a body, leg bent, long hair flowing. _Something you can fall asleep to._ He growls in frustration. Luckily he still has his voice.

“What the hell is going on?” he spits out. 

Dad’s eyes glow yellow. “You’re just getting what you deserve.”

A flash—

_There’s a woman crying as she wraps a lamp cord around her neck, an obit next to her. Her baby, born with the umbilical cord around his neck. Her husband watched with dead eyes as they removed the tiny body from his sight._

_A teenager’s mangled body, some of his hair stuck in the windshield wiper of the car that hit him. “Poor boy, his little sister ran out in traffic while he was babysitting her.”_

“What—“

Dad shakes his head with disappointment. “You’re starting this again? I thought we cleaned that out of you.” He frowns. “Guess we’ll have to do it again just to make sure.”

“Not me though, right?” Meg says in Sam’s whiny voice. “I was up!”

“Alastair’s in control of that, not me,” Dad—no, yellow eyes?—says. “But I wouldn’t bring it up if I were you. You know him.”

Sam—Meg—sulks. She slugs Dean in the shoulder. “Way to get me in trouble, jackass. You’re so useless, you can’t even get out of bed on time.”

Dad tosses him a bag; it clangs when it hits the bed. “Chores, then. You’ve been putting them off for too long. Help him, Meg.”

Fire seeps into his skin; his vision tunnels, and all he can hear are tones, humming incessantly in his ears. The fuck is this, is this—?

“You’re the only one who can have a family?” Dad—no, not Dad, never Dad—asks. “You killed my children, you little insignificant bastard. I wasn’t exactly pleased to take you as replacement, but over time, I suppose I’ve learned you aren’t without entertainment.”

“Fuck you, you yellow-eyed bastard.”

Dad sighs. “Been a while since I’ve heard that one. I know I’m just a stepfather, so call me by my name. Azazel. Now, get up.”

Dean shakes his head. “Hold on just one second, chief.” He turns to Meg, fury in his veins. “How did you manage to get my brother again?”

Meg pouts. It looks strangely familiar on Sam’s face. “I didn’t _get_ him. He’s not here anymore. I have this suit all to myself.” She runs a hand over Sam’s chest. “Nice suit, too.”

Dean lunges forward. “You bi—“ but he’s frozen again and laid back down on the bed.

“Such a temper, my son,” Azazel smiles. “Keep it up and you’ll go to bed tonight without dinner. It’s your favorite, too. Chicken pot pie.”

_You’ve got to be shitting me._

Meg gives him another slug to the shoulder. “So shut up. You don’t want to miss Dad’s pie!”

“Get out of bed and get changed,” Azazel says. “Get those chores done and maybe I’ll even see if I can scrounge up some dessert. You too, Meg,” he adds before he turns and leaves.

Suddenly, Meg’s in front of him on the bed, eyes wide. “I’m helping you,” she whispers. “I’m getting you out. Just a little longer.”

Hazel eyes.

 _Sam’s still in there,_ Dean thinks with relief.

:::

It’s bright outside.

Meg drags him out the front door, grumbling. She kicks the rake that’s resting against the side of the house, under Dean’s bedroom window.

It’s a typical neighborhood, every house clearly with the same blueprint. Two stories, blue shutters, attached garage. There’s a man next door who’s mowing his lawn; when he sees them, he waves. 

He’s missing two fingers ( _the clock, the damn clock_ ) and his hand is swollen. Infected. He grins. His tongue is gone.

“Asked too many questions,” Meg says, noticing his stare. “About you, normally. Thought you were being _abused_.”

“Alastair cut his tongue out.”

“Yep.”

“Why is he still here? Why hasn’t he left? Done…something?”

“Oh, Dean,” Meg laughs. “Nobody ever leaves.” She watches Dean’s eyes as they continue to scan the area. “Not even you.”

:::

Raking the leaves with Meg is the strangest experience he’s ever had. She follows behind him, bagging the piles he creates. _”We’ll burn them later,”_ she tells him gleefully. _”Maybe even have s’mores!”_ The normalcy is making his skin crawl.

Dean doesn’t miss Meg’s eyes as they continuously dart over to the empty drive way. “What?”

“Just want to get this done before he gets home,” Meg says, and she picks up the pace.

_I'll see you back in class bright and early Monday morning._

Dean grits his teeth and tightens his hold on the rake. It’s odd, but there’s a strange sense of relief—finally, someone who knows him, who will give him answers. When he turns back to the lawn, Meg’s staring at him, and it’s still a jolt to see her using Sam’s face.

“Just do as he says,” Meg tells him, her walk quick and nervous when a Ford Mustang pulls into the drive way. 

Normally, Dean would sneer at the choice of vehicle, but he can’t quite get beyond the fact of who’s driving. It’s not the Alastair he remembers, with rows of teeth and who hisses like a cicada when he speaks. No blinding white eyes without lids— _let’s have a staring contest, eh, Dean?_

It’s the Alastair he tortured, the first and only time that he had his mentor under the blade.

He’s dressed in a suit and tie, hair styled back. In place of his beard, though, there’s just smooth skin. He looks younger, less intimidating, and somehow that makes Dean much more uneasy. Alastair puts the car into park and steps out, carrying a briefcase. It’s so typical Dean nearly bursts into nervous laughter.

“Help with dinner,” Alastair says to Meg. She swallows and nods, Sam’s long legs eating up the distance to the kitchen like it’s nothing. “Come with me, Dean.”

Dean just stands there for a moment, feet frozen. Should—

 _”Come,_ ” Alastair says firmly, and Dean finds himself moving.

It’s scary how easy it is to fall into step behind him. Alastair’s steps are swift and silent, and he doesn’t even take a second glance at Dean. Dean frowns—that’s not how it is, normally, he’s never out of Alastair’s sight. It’s not right, and he feels sick for even thinking this way.

Alastair leads him down the hallway to a backroom. An office, with a computer, bookshelves, filing cabinets. 

Nice. Normal. His skin itches.

Alastair sits down behind his desk and gestures for Dean to sit opposite him.

“Azazel tells me there was an incident this morning.”

“Incident?”

Alastair sighs. “You’ve been doing so well, Dean. Twelve years running, in fact. I’m ashamed that you seem to have slipped back into your old ways.”

“Sorry, I must have misunderstood you. Twelve years? It’s been one fucking night.”

Alastair frowns. “Ah, yes. The familiar claim of amnesia. I don’t tolerate lying, my boy.” He toys with a pen on his desk; the tip is red with blood. There’s a faint flash of pain in Dean’s shoulder. “It took a long time for you to finally open up to me. Do I need to remind you of that?” His eyes slide down to Dean’s chest.

_”Tell me what’s going on.”_

“You’ve heard this story so many times already.”

“Then one more time won’t kill you.”

Alastair leans back in his chair and crosses his fingers over his lap. He rolls back and forth across the carpeted floor, wheels squeaking. “We’re family now, Dean. The four of us. You keep attempting to leave, to go back to your old family, and that’s been long gone, understand? Your Sam? Gone.” He leans forward now, placing his elbows on the desk. “You’ve spend your whole pathetic life wondering if your daddy and Sammy loved you. It was embarrassing, and I don’t know why you’d ever want to go back to that. We love you. We care about you. Once you fully embrace that, things will get better, you’ll see.”

It’s a djinn. Something. A parallel life. Whatever it is, it’s fucked up, and _not real._ He’s done this before, he can do it again. Whatever he has to.

Alastair sighs. “This again?” He reaches down and pulls open a drawer. He lifts a knife, made of beautiful steel with a sharp, chiseled point. He holds it out to Dean. “Here.”

Dean stares at the weapon but doesn’t reach to take it. Alastair shakes it harder.

“Take it.”

Finally Dean does. It’s heavy in his hand.

“Give it a spin. Let your chest absorb it. Won’t do you a damn bit of good.”

Dean runs his fingers across the blade. He comforts himself with the familiarity; he’s done it before and it turned out just fine, didn’t it? _Man up, you fucking coward._ He jabs it in his chest quickly, closing his eyes and bracing himself for the pain as the sadly familiar squelch of the impact hits his ears.

There’s nothing.

When he reopens his eyes, Alastair is watching him sadly. “I hope this is the last time I must allow you to do this.” He grins. “I can think of much better ways to utilize such a treasure. Perhaps you need a refresher?”

Turns out Alastair’s found a creative way to hide his arsenal among the office supplies.

:::

_”Damn it, Dean, you got bit.”_

_“We’re going to have to keep an eye out on you, because you’re going to—“_

_It stops._

_Fuck, Sam. I’m going to what?_

_Sam’s voice remains silent._

:::

“I told you to just do what he said,” Meg mutters as she scoops some mashed potatoes onto her plate. Dean sits next to her, slumping over. He dreams of those days that flowed into thirty years. The horror and stabbing pain, the humiliation as demons spat on him as they walked by. The want to give in, to end this as he teetered on the edge.

It was just as he remembered, but worse.

“Wouldn’t have done any good.”

“Guess not,” Meg says. “I still don’t understand why you do this. It’s been a long time since your last episode. Thought you’d finally give in by now.”

Dean steels his jaw and takes a chance. “What is this place?”

“You ask that every—“ 

“Yeah, yeah, humor me. Where are we?”

“Hell,” Meg says. “Where else?”

Dean laughs. “They’ve done some remodeling in my absence, then?”

Meg gives him a strange look. “Absence? Dean, you never left.”

Dean snorts. “You’re going to have to try harder than that.”

“I’m serious,” Meg says in a monotone voice. “You had a—well, let’s just call it a breakdown. Back in the pit. Starting babbling on and on about seals and demon blood and angels—one in particular. Cast-yell, or something. Anyway, you should have seen Alastair, he was so embarrassed. He had been toting you as the next big thing and ten years in, you go and lose your marbles. Spent years trying to “rehabilitate” you, but nothing seemed to work. So he brought you here. Figured that familiar faces would bring you back. And they did, but every now and then you’d start with that same old bullshit. But you’d been clean for so long, we figured it was over.”

“That’s an amusing little story,” Dean says, “but you know, for some reason, I don’t buy it.”

“Right, because demons lie, right?” Meg says. “Unless the truth hurts more. Honey, believe what you want. That’s fine. But look around you. Listen. Open your eyes. Give me one good reason why I’m not telling you the truth.”

“Like this isn’t the first time I’ve been through something like this?”

“Right, the djinn. But you don’t remember if you were actually hunting that now, do you? And even if you were, it’s a bit fucked up that this would be your ideal universe, and considering you already know what your ideal universe is, how does this make any sense?”

“If there’s a djinn, then it’s opposite must exist,” Dean insists. “It’s how it works.”

Meg smiles obligingly. “Sure, okay. I’d give a more thorough investigation of this place, though. You’ll see that there is no way out.”

:::

Dean waits until the house goes quiet before he climbs out his window. He’s met with surprisingly no resistance. The whole neighborhood is silent; there’s no wind, no late night TV glow. He can hear his own breath rattling in his chest as his exhales are swallowed up by the night.

Dean stands at the end of the driveway for a moment, looking either way. He turns left on a whim and starts running before he second guesses himself. There’s nothing that stands out, no identifying geography to suggest where he is. Everything’s the same. Same colors, same mailboxes. No side streets, just the one under his feet.

He doesn’t know how long he runs before his lungs protest enough for him to come to a dead stop. Leaning over and putting his hands on his knees, he pants and struggles to catch his breath. When he looks left, he realizes he’s right back at the house. Their house.

Alastair’s sitting on the front step. “Finished?”

Dean straightens, eyes narrowing. “Stop fucking with me. I’ve known you for a long time, Alastair. Long time. Maybe it’s not a djinn, but I know this isn’t real.”

Alastair smiles slowly, revealing one tooth at a time. “You don’t think so?” He crosses his legs. “Let me remind you of something, my boy. I’m much smarter, much cleverer than you. Several steps ahead of you. Don’t insult me. Shall we step back into my office for another chat?”

“We’re chatting now,” Dean says through gritted teeth.

Alastair inclines his head. “Sure.”

“I know this isn’t right. I was with Sam last night. We were on a hunt. We ate bad pepperoni pizza with nasty ass cheese.”

“I allow you to wallow in your memories at times,” Alastair says. “I thought you had learned how to distinguish them from reality. Perhaps you truly don’t remember, but we’ve had these conversations many times. Many, many times. I will have them no longer, understand me? Or I’ll throw you downstairs until you’re a drooling, babbling mess with your only existing thought be thinking of ways to please me. _Get inside._ ”

Dean looks up; Meg’s watching from her window. “We don’t have time to sleep,” she says. “We’ve got to keep going. I can’t stop, not knowing what’s happening to him.”

_Huh?_

Alastair stands as if he never heard Meg speak. “Shall we?”

When Dean looks up at the window again, Meg’s gone.

:::

When Dean drifts awake the next morning, he keeps his eyes closed. Waits for any sign of Sam—his Sam. A shower running, the clacking of keys.

There’s nothing, except for the silent scream of the outline on the ceiling. He tastes ashes on his tongue.

He squints when his light suddenly comes on. “Potluck today,” Meg says, still in pajamas. Slippers cover Sam’s huge feet. “I fucking hate those. Why they insist on doing them once a month, I don’t know.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Nope. I bring mashed potatoes every time. Don’t think they’ve ever noticed.”

“What is it with demons and potatoes?”

“You’ve never had _my_ potatoes. So, what are you going to bring this time?”

It’s surprisingly fast how easy it is for Dean to fall back into step with Meg, with their banter. Down in the pit, they were in constant competition with each other, but there was a camaraderie there. Something that he could define himself by.

“What do I usually bring?”

“Pie.”

Heh, at least one thing here makes sense. “Can’t I just go in on yours?”

“On mashed potatoes?” Meg crinkles her nose. “A three-tier cake, sure. But not something that takes sixty seconds to heat up. Not that I make my potatoes like that. I’ve got a _secret recipe._ ”

Nothing it is. “So, all of us go?”

Meg nods. “Everyone in the neighborhood, too.”

He thought things couldn’t get any stranger. “Why are you helping me, anyway?”

Meg shrugs. “You’re always like this for a few days after. Well, you lose it. Figured I’d do you a favor so you don’t keep testing Alastair’s patience.” She shudders. “Not pleasant for anyone.”

People seem to have come out of the woodwork for the potluck. Dean searches for a familiar face. A sign, _something._ Anything to suggest what he’s hunting, but there’s nothing. Some greet him like an old friend, with strong hugs and firm handshakes and grateful smiles. Others stay far away from him, scars decorating their bodies.

Dean gestures toward them. “What’s going on there?”

Meg takes a sip of her coke. “They don’t like you.”

“Yeah, I figured that out. Why?”

Meg lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “Long story there, buckaroo. Seriously, will you taste my potatoes already?” She demonstrates, giving a low moan. “Man, that’s the closest to heaven I’ll ever get.”

“If I try them, will you shut up?”

She grins, plopping some on his plate. He takes a small bite, and Dean has to admit that she has a point. They’re pretty good. Not too bad. He could eat more.

All right, they’re fucking delicious.

“Told ya,” Meg sings. “Just like Mamma used to make.”

Dean sits down in a lawn chair, the plate of food on his lap. “So is this what we normally do? Hide in the corner?”

“We try, usually,” Meg says. “But someone will come bother us momentarily. Probably to pinch those cheeks of yours. _Oh, you poor darling. I’ll make you some pie a la mode. Your father is just so_ mean _to you._ ”

“So everyone here knows about—“

“Hell, ‘course they know. Some pretend to pity you. Not enough to actually try to help you, though. But that’s people for you. Others, well…oh, shit,” she says, standing up. “Ole Ms. Pritchard, can’t stand her, see ya.”

“Hey—“

“Good evening, darling,” an older woman with a simpering smile says. “Are you doing all right? Your family,” and her smile falters, “are they—are they treating you well?”

“Same old,” Dean says, for lack of a better answer. “You know how it is. Pain and anguish every day.” He lays it on thick: she deserves it, if she hasn’t bothered to help him at all. 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she says. “I wish you could get one day of reprieve.”

“One day?” Dean shakes his head. “You’re so generous.”

“One day _is_ generous, dear,” she answers, and Dean frowns in confusion.

“Brenda, will you stop toying with that boy already? He’ll start thinking that you actually care.”

Dean turns to the side to see a guy, looks to be in his thirties, rest a hand on Brenda’s shoulder. Brenda’s demeanor changes instantly: her eyes harden and she crosses her arms. There’s a sneer to her lips. She leans in close. 

“I hope when you go home, you taste your own bone marrow,” she hisses. She spits in his face before she leaves, turning back every few moments to glare at him.

_The fuck?_

“Right bitch, isn’t she?”

“What the hell was that about?”

“I kind of lied earlier,” Meg says. “Nobody likes you. They probably get off on you under Alastair’s blade. Sometimes they have watch parties; what do you think comes on TV here?” She thinks. “Actually, on every channel, I think.”

Dean feels sick, and the mashed potatoes aren’t sitting so well in his stomach. “You’re kidding me. Not only are they okay with—you know. But they _like_ it?”

“Yep,” Meg says. “But that’s a story for another time. Come here. Got someone I’d like you to meet.”

Meg takes his hand and walks him over to the opposite side of the yard, to a tall man with dark hair and piercing eyes. His whole face lights up when he sees Dean. “Anthony,” he says. “I’m new to the area.” All white teeth, Dean can count each one. As Dean shakes his hand, he knows. _New to the area._

Meg’s now wearing Sam’s hazel eyes and they confirm: this is his ticket out.

:::

Apparently, politics still exist in this Hell.

“Richardson’s raised taxes on the middle class,” Anthony tells Azazel. “Crock of shit, if you ask me. I’ve got kids to feed. Fucker’s probably laughing his ass off in his living room right now.”

Meg, her eyes black once more, looks as bored as Dean feels. She scoops more mashed potatoes in her mouth, the only thing that’s on her plate, but her eyes are continuously darting between Dean and Anthony.

“Someone should take every damn penny from him,” Anthony continues. “’S what he deserves.”

Azazel runs his fingers through his beard. He looks like he’s one step from walking away. Meg polishes off her potatoes and looks longingly over at the food table. 

“So,” Anthony says. “How do you all like it here? Dean?”

“Love it,” Dean flashes a grin. “Couldn’t be better.”

“Uh huh,” Anthony says. “I’ll bet.”

Dean narrows his eyes. “Why do you care?”

“Now, now, Dean,” Alastair says. “Don’t be rude to our new neighbor.”

“It’s all right,” Anthony replies, waving a hand. “I understand some people go through rough patches and take it out on others.”

Meg stares at Anthony with open incredulity, but Alastair watches with a small smile.

“You seem quite insightful.”

“I’m an excellent judge of character,” Anthony says, “and I’m never wrong.”

“I like to think I’m a good judge of character, too,” Meg says. “And I think you’re a dick.”

“Megan,” Azazel says with disapproval. _Megan?_ Dean mouths to her, and she shrugs. “I apologize for our children. At times they can be disrespectful, and they will be punished for it.”

“It’s all right,” Anthony repeats. “People certainly have the right to express themselves. I find that it all works out in the end.”

Meg sulks next to Dean while Azazel turns the topic back to politics and Richardson’s corruption. 

:::

Two days later, Richardson declares bankruptcy.

:::

After that, the days begin to blur. He spends his free time looking for loopholes, using what little he remembers from that Tuesday. He finally has to admit that this is a completely different scenario, but that only makes him buckle down even more. He doesn’t claim that things are _wrong_ anymore, that something clearly fucked up is going on here. He just tries to fit in to the best of his ability without drawing attention to himself.

Which doesn’t seem to work, as everyone seems to enjoy giving all their attention to him anyway. _You’re our axis, Deanie-poo_ , Meg coos.

He’s taking one of his walks to get away from the house—Azazel offered to darn his _socks_ , for fuck’s sake—when Dean sees a woman strumming a guitar in her front yard. With difficulty, as she’s missing all her fingernails. Her hair is limp, missing in clumps. There’s something about her that makes Dean approach her.

“What are you playing?” he asks. She looks up with a glare.

“What do you care,” she mutters, absently striking the D string.

Dean sits next to her and she immediately scoots a few feet away.

He frowns. “Did I do something to offend you?” He’ll bet this isn’t the first time he’s interacted with this woman.

She gives a disbelieving laugh. “Are you kidding me? Did you _do_ something? You mean, besides stand there while Alastair ravaged my bones? Besides letting him dig into other people when you knew good and well he didn’t give a shit about them, and was just using them as a substitute for you? Besides knowing that if you just said stop, he’d use you and you alone? No, you were too good for that. You were willing to let other people take your place.” Her eyes are hateful. “You may have finally said ‘stop’, but it was too late for me. Too late for a lot of us.”

Dean opens his mouth, but she interrupts.

“Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare try to claim innocence. Don’t you dare try to act like you don’t know who we are and what you’ve done to us. _Don’t you fucking dare._ ”

Dean lets her go back inside her house without a word. 

:::

“It’s true,” Meg says back home (and isn’t that a weird thought, _home_ ). “Alastair took on half the town before you said yes to him.”

“Why? It doesn’t make sense. Why the fuck would he do that?”

“You don’t get it?” Meg says. “He _wanted_ you to come to him. He _wanted_ you to ask to take their place. In his mind, it would mean that you’d want him to, you know. Torture you.”

“No,” Dean shakes his head. “I wouldn’t do that. I wouldn’t wait, there’s just no way—“ 

“Yeah, I was surprised too,” Meg says. “You and your pathetic self-sacrificing. But you did. You hated it, it was killing you. You didn’t go to any potlucks, any social gatherings. Just stayed in your room and hid. Alastair knew you’d give in, though. You should have seen the look on his face. I’ve never seen him look so…gleeful.”

His chest tightens and Meg leans forward, putting her hand on his knee. Dean looks up. Hazel.

“You’re right—does this sound like you? It’s a lie, and you know it. Don’t believe it, remember what we were hu—“ she stops abruptly, shaking her head. Standing up, she moves to leave, but Dean reaches out and grabs her wrist.

“What? What we were what?”

Meg raises an eyebrow. “The hell you’re talking about?”

“What you just said! A lie, it’s a lie. Something about a hunt?”

“Wow, you’re really losing it this time, aren’t you?” Meg says. She ruffles his hair. “Please tell me you’re going to be over this in the morning, I’m getting tired of babysitting you. Although I won’t deny that it’s fun that you have to rely on me.” She jumps off the bed and begins to leave.

“Wait.”

She stops and turns around. “Yeah?”

“That woman. She said that I better not forget who _they_ are. What I’ve done to them.”

“Oh,” Meg says. “Yeah, about that. You seem to forget that on top of it all. Everyone here? Are those poor souls you tortured after you gave in. Can’t really blame them for hating you, eh?”

Dean has to swallow so he doesn’t puke. He remembers, shit, Brenda Pritchard. Killed her daughter-in-law. The guy who laid a hand on her shoulder, he was a con artist. Embezzled millions of dollars. Looking back, he can name each person’s supposed crimes, courtesy of Alastair’s “background checks”, but he can’t put the face to the transgression.

“You really shouldn’t feel bad,” Meg says. “You just did your job, you know. Who expects Hell to be a cakewalk? They knew there were going to be tortured. They weren’t saints, either, Dean. They just got what they deserved. I understand why they’re not too pleased with you, as they associate you with the pain, but eh. I don’t feel bad for them.”

She pats his head again. Dean lets her go, and she closes the door softly behind him. He lays flat on his back and covers his eyes. _Not tonight, Mom._

:::

While Alastair’s gone—gone off to wherever it is he goes during the day, and Dean’s fine with never knowing where that is—Dean picks the lock to his office. There’s got to be answers on that bookshelf of his. Something about a creature that’s the opposite of a djinn. 

His reading choice is eclectic, to say the least. _Wuthering Heights. Pride and Prejudice. Catcher and the Rye—Holden Caulfield you aren’t, Dean—_ and the Bible, easily the most read of all of them judging by the worn pages.

Personal notes. Notes upon notes. A dissertation about pain, suffering, and how to draw it out to the fullest. Written by Alastair of course, and Dean has to huff an incredulous laugh about what doctoral program Alastair wrote this for. Dr. Alastair, what a fucking joke. 

“Find anything you like?”

Dean jumps and drops the dissertation. He doesn’t bother trying to come up with excuses. He stands up straight and looks him in the eye. “Nope.”

“You know that no one is allowed in my office without my permission.”

“Figured I could be an exemption,” Dean grins.

Alastair returns it. “You know, normally I’d be annoyed. But I have to say, I find this refreshing. You’ve been good lately, Dean. Too good. I’ve missed us. What we used to be. Your cheek, your rebellion. I need a taste every now and then, and you haven’t been delivering. Haven’t been letting me relive the good old days.”

Alastair leans back and closes the door behind him. “Let’s do some reminiscing, shall we?” 

:::

Dean doesn’t make it for dinner that night. 

:::

“He put you through the wringer this time.”

Dean would glare at her if he had eyes.

“Didn’t even heal you this time. That’s brutal.”

He grunts.

“I don’t want to know where your kneecaps are, do I.”

“No.”

“Yuck.”

The pain’s like a drug, and he finds himself giggling stupidly. “You kn’w, you’re a good brother, M’g. The best.”

“Uh…huh.”

“No, I mean it. R’lly.”

“Okay, Dean.” Her grip on his hand tightens. “As much as I love listening to your delusional ramblings, I figured I should warn you that Alastair invited Anthony over for dinner tomorrow.”

“Does ev’ryone’s name start with ‘A’ here? Bes’des us?”

“If you cause trouble”—Dean can imagine the quotes around that part, for sure—“then it’s not going to be good. Azazel’s getting mad that Alastair’s been hogging you lately and he wants a turn. I don’t think you want to see your insides tomorrow, do you?”

“No.”

“It’s _Anthony,_ Dean. You have to kill him,” Meg says. “He’s the one, he’s the guy who put you here.”

“Huh?” 

“I don’t have long,” Meg says. She taps two fingers on the pulse point of his wrist. “But you need to get to him. Take him out. It’s the only way.”

She lifts her fingers away, and with that touch, she’s gone.

:::

The next morning, Dean swims back into awareness with his eyes and kneecaps in their proper place, and damn is that a nice thing to wake up to. And the smell of turkey.

“Alastair’s really interested in this guy for some reason,” Meg scowls before taking a sip of her orange juice at breakfast. “No idea why, as he’s boring as hell. If I have to listen to him ramble on and on about how the world is going downhill one more time, I’m going to stab myself in the eye with my fork.”

Dean winces. “Did you really have to bring up your eye that way now?”

“My bad. They look fine this morning, though. Look at those beautiful orbs—“

“Don’t touch me.”

Meg laughs but withdraws. “Maybe I’ll put sleeping pills in the mashed potatoes.” 

“For fuck’s sake, stop already with the potatoes.”

She just chuckles again and reaches for her toast, but her arm freezes in midair.

“I won’t have my daughter do something so crude,” Azazel says. “I’ve taught you better than that.” He gives Dean a grin. “Although I have to say, I hope you do something to ruin the evening. Your chest bleeds so prettily.”

Dean takes a swig of milk to avoid saying how he really feels. He waits until Azazel leaves the kitchen to check on the turkey before leaning toward Meg.

“What you said last night. About Anthony.”

“That he’s coming to dinner? I just told you about that. Again. Remember? Sleeping pills?”

“No, not that,” Dean shakes his head. “About…taking him out. Him being the reason I’m here?”

“Okay, you’re really starting to freak me out,” Meg says. “I would definitely remember saying that. And maybe you forgot, but the reason you’re here is because you sold your soul like the pathetic thing you are. Your fault. No one else’s.”

“I know that,” Dean hisses. “Trust me, I know. But can’t you think for just one second that maybe _I’m_ the one who’s sane here? That you guys are brainwashed? That you’re just—“

“Figments of your imagination?” Meg finishes. “Yeah, heard that one before. And no, no, I can’t. I’m sorry that you can’t seem to accept that this is your life now. You don’t seem to remember, but things actually used to flow quite smoothly. We lived our lives, did our chores. You’d spend evenings getting ripped to shreds and you just took it. Some people pretended to act grateful that you spared them, others were angry at you because you said yes too late. It’s how things were. It’s how things _are._ ”

_”You lasted a lot longer than I thought you would, my boy. Hid under those bedcovers and listened to screams—maybe if you tried hard enough, you could excuse it. Pretend something else was happening. But no longer. Arms out. Let’s get started.”_

Meg watches him knowingly. “Sorry. But the sooner you get it, the better it’ll be. You’ll see.”

That night, when he dreams of red and the taste of copper and fear, he wonders if they are real memories or if he’s simply starting to believe the lie.

:::

“Thank you for having me,” Anthony says when he comes in the front door with a bottle of Cabernet.

“Of course,” Azazel says. “We always like to greet the new neighbors. To see what our new addition is like, you know.”

“Scope me out,” Anthony says with a knowing smile.

“In a manner of speaking,” Azazel agrees. “Although not as crudely as you phrased it.”

Anthony’s smile falters and his eyes narrow for the briefest of moments. The room suddenly gets colder, and Dean swears he sees Azazel flicker out of sight for a second. Anthony takes a deep breath and unclench his fists, and the moment is over.

“I apologize if I’ve offended you,” Anthony says, setting the bottle of wine on the table. “My tongue has the habit of getting ahead of me.”

“There are many things a tongue can do,” Alastair with a soft smile. Dean tightens his mouth and sits down. He can name about eight things to which Alastair is referring. Judging by how rigidly Meg is sitting in her chair, she’s thinking the same.

Well, Azazel and Alastair’s establishing of dominance wasn’t exactly subtle, but it worked. To say the least. Anthony sits at the table, forehead creased in annoyance. Alastair simply hums to himself as he brings out the turkey—a fourteen pounder, for some reason—and carves it up with precision. He raises his eyes to meet Dean’s glance and raises an eyebrow with a smile. His thumb caresses the point but he spills no blood. 

“Dessert, perhaps,” he says quietly, so only Dean can hear. Dean simply tilts his chin up in defiance.

Meg pats his leg under the table, Sam’s huge paw covering his kneecap. “Hope you don’t remember last year,” she mutters.

“You seem to have quite the nice thing going on here,” Anthony says, raising his glass of wine in a toast.

“It did take some time to get things properly set-up,” Alastair smiles at Dean. “But we do all right for ourselves.”

_Because no one in the community wants to come near you without pissing their pants._

“I think I’m going to enjoy living here,” Anthony says, sounding eager. “I have to say, I’ve lived in many places. With some truly despicable people. People who you wished had karma handed to them.”

“Listen,” Meg murmurs through a mouthful of potatoes. “See? People who deserve what they get. Who eventually _get_ it, thanks to him. Like Richardson?”

Dean gives her a strange look, but Meg takes a sip of her own wine like she hadn’t said anything.

“We don’t have that problem here,” Azazel says. “Of course, it helps to have the town’s whipping boy.”

Anthony turns his smile onto Dean and winks. Fucking _winks._

_”Guy seems to like taking on those he deems ‘sinners’ one at a time,” Sam said. “Gonna wipe out the whole planet at this rate. Who hasn’t done something they’ve regretted?”_

Shit.

“You see, I think deep down, everyone feels guilty for something,” Anthony continues. “Everyone secretly wants to be punished for it, but they don’t know how to ask on their own. Perhaps they think karma will get them in the end, perhaps they _hope_ karma gets them in the end, who knows. But I think it’s something that resides in all of us. And it feels damn good when it happens.”

“I believe we will vehemently disagree on that point,” Azazel says, lip curling. Alastair looks like he’s one step away from bursting into laughter.

“You don’t think so? You don’t have anything you feel guilty about?”

“Can’t say that I do,” Azazel shrugs, scooping some green beans onto his plate. “Things I wish I had done instead, sure. Things I feel guilty about? No, most definitely not.”

“Nobody?” Anthony asks, looking around the table. Alastair has his chin resting on one hand, an indulgent smile on his face. Meg shoves a biscuit in her mouth, avoiding answering. “Dean? Perhaps you recognize the people in this neighborhood?”

Each pair of eyes shoot to Dean, and he just grits his teeth and digs into his own helping of potatoes. He takes a moment to savor them, focusing the light flakes of butter melting on his tongue. Just enough garlic to give it a kick. Meg straightens in her chair, a proud smile on her face. 

“My sister,” Anthony says, “was murdered by her boyfriend. He had threatened her numerous times, and you know what? Nobody did a damn thing. Not the police, not her friends, no one. I had to hear about it after I identified her corpse in autopsy. You know what I did? I took each one of those fuckers out. Slowly. It was incredible; I’ve never felt that way before. They begged and they pleaded, but I didn’t do a damn thing to help them.”

“I hardly think this is dinner conversation,” Azazel says. “Shall we move on to a more pleasant topic?”

Meg jumps on it. “Good potatoes, huh?” she asks. “Have you tried them yet, Anthony?”

“No,” Anthony says, mouth twisted. He takes a perfunctory bite and gives a lame thumbs-up. He hunches his shoulders, clearly deep in thought.

Azazel fills the silence with pointless conversation, Meg chiming in every now and then, but Alastair simply watches Anthony for the rest of the meal. That same smile is on his lips, that smile only Alastair possesses. The smile that means whoever is receiving it has lost the game they were playing.

:::

Alastair follows Dean back upstairs once they bid Anthony a fond farewell. “You did well tonight. So well behaved. I’m a little disappointed.”

“Why?” Dean shoots back. “Thought you liked it when I stuck to the plan.”

“I don’t enjoy when seem to forget who you are now, but I don’t want you to be my little robot,” Alastair says. He smiles. “You rebel in the most adorable ways, you know. Switch the salt and pepper, lock Meg in the bathroom by putting a chair under the knob, set the clock back a few hours so I’d be late for work. You’re stubborn, my boy. You never give in, not really. And that’s what I love most about you.

I thought having Anthony over may be insightful for you. Why do you think you bring punishment upon yourself? Is it because you like it? You enjoy being punished? Nah. You think it’s all you’re good for. It’s why we work so well together. I simply give you what you need. And you give me what I need. A challenge.”

Alastair claps a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “All right, off to bed. We’ll see what tomorrow has for us, hmm?”

He opens Dean’s door and waits for Dean to go inside. “Make sure to brush those teeth, now.” He smiles, pats his shoulder one more time, and closes the door.

“That speech again, huh?”

Dean jumps when he hears Sam’s voice on the bed. “Shit, Meg.”

“You know,” Meg continues, “sometimes I think that he messes with your memory on purpose just so he can tell you that over and over. He really seems to love it.”

“Trust me, that is one thing I remember about him,” Dean mutters. “What are you doing in here, anyway?”

Meg pauses before she heads to the door and locks it. She reaches behind her, pulling out a knife. “Took a lot of work to get this,” she says. “You have to hurry. He lives two blocks down. His house is the only one with red shutters. If you kill him it’s over, Dean. Take it. Take it before I—“

Dean senses the incoming change and grabs the knife from her, pushing her aside. 

“Wait, where are you going?” she screeches behind him, but he’s already out the door.

:::

As he runs, people watch him from their windows. Some are hiding behind their curtains, but others bother with no such pretense. It’s as if they’re watching him march to his death. Some grin with anticipation, patting each other on the back.

And if that’s the end result? That’s fine. If he doesn’t get the chance to kill Anthony, well. He’s got a back-up option. He can’t bear to stay here one more day.

The house with red shutters sticks out like a sore thumb, and Dean’s surprised to see that the door is already open. Feeling very much like he’s about to step into a trap, he holds the knife up at the ready.

He feels breath across the nape of his neck. “Pretty little dagger you go there. Was that made special for you?”

Instinctively, Dean grabs Anthony’s wrist and spins him around, pinning him against the wall.

“Too bad, I wanted a little more time to watch you in this environment,” Anthony says. “I have to say, I’ve never had someone actually figure out what was happening. Had help, did you?”

“You’re seriously fucked up. Something bad happened to your sister, so you figured you could judge everyone and play God, huh?”

“I suppose I am,” Anthony beams. “God surely doesn’t bother to do the job, does he? But I just put you where you thought you deserved to be. I did you a favor. Kept you out of the way and let your brother move on. Everyone would be happier without you, right?”

Dean hesitates, and Anthony smiles.

“Pathetic. But see? You want to stay. You think you _need_ to stay.” He leans forward. “I just give them what they want. Guilt is a powerful motivator.”

“So what, you like to hop in just to watch?” 

“You’re the first person I’ve used in this way,” Anthony says. “Usually I just have them kill themselves. But you? You are so full of self-loathing it’s ridiculous. Even now you can’t decide if you should get out. But I gave you what you’ve always wanted. A family. A normal life.”

_Don’t listen. Stab him, Dean. Do it now!_

Anthony spreads his arms. “You think killing me is going to fix you? Then go ahead. Do it. I dare you.”

Before Dean has a moment to think further, to second guess himself or consider the ramifications, he finally reaches out and pierces Anthony’s chest with one smooth motion. Anthony coughs, spitting blood on Dean’s face. The familiar smell of copper fills his nostrils and he relaxes as hot liquid starts running down his forearm. Dean doesn’t release the knife, just stares at Anthony’s face as his life starts to slip away. Anthony’s eyes twinkle with amusement and he breathes a “it’s too bad” before they glaze over, slowly closing in death.

:::

“Wake up, Dean. You’re okay. I gotcha.”

He can’t help the flinch when he sees Sam’s face. Sam frowns at him but doesn’t move away. “It’s okay,” he says again. “Just me. Test me.”

“Christo,” Dean says slowly, and he relaxes when Sam’s eyes remain hazel.

Sam gives a sigh of relief. “Didn’t think I was gonna be able to make solid contact with you, man. I could only get a few seconds at a time from Meg. And the time limit was three days.”

“How long was I—?”

“Two days,” Sam says.

_Two days?_

Dean leans back on his pillows. Sam made it. He’ll always make it.

“So,” Sam starts, but hesitates. “What—what did you see?”

Dean just rubs the heels of his hands against his eyes.

“Okay,” Sam says. Dean can imagine him standing there, biting his lip. “Let me go get us some food. Bet you’re starving. Relax, all right? I’ll take care of it.”

Dean keeps his eyes closed, but he doesn’t fall asleep. He fumbles for the TV remote and turns it on, content with having noise to keep him company. It should be comforting to be back. To be where he belongs.

But it feels exactly the same. There may be no outline of a body on this ceiling but he can sense it anyway, sense the screams of agony and the eyes wide with desperation. He can’t help but imagine a secret office down that hallway past the bathroom, full of books and a globe made from human skin.

A Sam with black eyes, so much like his Sam but also someone who couldn’t be more different.

Dean suddenly sits up straight and makes for the bathroom. He needs a hot shower, needs the heat pressing on his skin, the steam clogging up his throat.

The water pressure isn’t great, and the taps are rusty, but the shower rod isn’t made from a femur, and he doesn’t have to worry about anything but water coming out of that shower head. 

He doesn’t want to admit it, but he had grown strangely used to his other home.

Dean turns on the TV after he dresses, needing some background noise. Nice to know that he won’t show up on any of these channels. He suddenly realizes how truly alone he is, that after his death, there are only three people who would be aware that he even existed.

Holy shit, he _misses_ Meg.

Before he has time to think more on that disturbing thought, Sam’s back with the wonderful smell that only beef can provide. 

Sam drops the car keys on the bed and holds out a Styrofoam container. “Got you a burger with all the works.”

“Awesome, thanks.” Dean reaches out for the box but Sam doesn’t hand it over. Dean’s arm hovers in midair, waiting. He laughs nervously. “There better be some fries with gravy in there, too. Fucking starving.”

Sam smiles softly, and his eyes flicker in the dim light. “Nah, sorry,” he says. “Thought you’d prefer some mashed potatoes instead.”


End file.
